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Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discoverAnd not to me, thy no less silent lover?

Abraham Cowley

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Abraham Cowley
Age: 49 †
Born: 1618
Born: January 1
Died: 1667
Died: July 28
Essayist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
the City
Fishes
Thou
Lovers
Silent
Less
Mute
Thyself
Lover
Fish

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There is some help for all the defects of fortune for, if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, he may have his remedy by cutting of them shorter.
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Stones of small worth may lie unseen by day, But night itself does the rich gem betray.
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Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
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s a scene of changes, and to be constant in Nature were inconstancy.
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What a brave privilege is it to be free from all contentions, from all envying or being envied, from receiving or paying all kinds of ceremonies!
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Life for delays and doubts no time does give, None ever yet made haste enough to live.
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Unbind the charms that in slight fables lie and teach that truth is truest poesy.
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Acquaintance I would have, but when it depends not on number, but the choice of friends.
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The present is all the ready money Fate can give.
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Books should, not Business, entertain the Light And Sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night.
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain'd to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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Of all ills that one endures, hope is a cheap and universal cure.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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